


Stained and Scarred From Our Best Days

by waitingforjudas



Series: Judas' Kinktober 2019 [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Face-Sitting, Hate Sex, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Sex Toys, To an extent anyway, Truth Serum, also a scene during hogwarts, like year 6 hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 04:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21009416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingforjudas/pseuds/waitingforjudas
Summary: Draco’s been in love with Harry Potter for an embarrassingly long time, even though Potter’s straight, and always infatuated with some beautiful girl. But when circumstances suddenly change, all bets are off.Written for Kinktober 2019 prompts: Face Sitting, Toys, and Hate Sex.





	Stained and Scarred From Our Best Days

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, where'd I go for two days? 
> 
> I got sick! So now I'm a little behind, but I'll be catching up ASAP. I have the next story mostly planned out, as well as October 14’s story fully written, and I'm planning to post completed stories as soon as they're finished. This is October 10’s prompt. 
> 
> Also, I am not a British person and there may be inconsistencies between British English (which I've tried to follow here) and American English (which is my native dialect). 
> 
>   
_Written for Kinktober 2019. Prompt list can be found at https://twitter.com/NihilistShiro/status/1162794889970511872._

Draco _ached_ to tell Potter the truth, but if he admitted that Harry fucking Potter was the love of his life, then what? What next? Because maybe he could manage to say that, to admit that he wanted to have somebody by his side for life, somebody who wasn't just a friend—somebody who wasn't a woman. But beyond that? What was next?

What came after? 

Draco tried to make himself stop obsessing. Maybe, if he just acted like things hadn't changed, then he wouldn't have a problem. 

But every time he looked up, there was Potter. In the library, in the halls, in half of his classes. It was like he couldn't escape from him, no matter how hard he tried—but he wasn't trying that hard, not really. 

And Draco was ready to throw something because this—this was endless. All of his frustration had been building for too long, and now he was just—he was just going to have to figure out something new. Some way to avoid Potter again. 

“Draco,” Pansy said and Draco grimaced. 

“What.”

“_Draco_,” she hissed, and he turned to her, looking away from the book on the library table. 

“What do you _want_, Pansy? We’re in a library, not a—”

“Malfoy.”

Draco’s blood ran cold and hot, alternating, like fever chills, spiking and dropping. 

His face felt like it had drained of blood, but he wasn’t sure if that was from his blood pressure dropping or from Pansy casting a spell to try and help him out. 

Well, no, it was definitely Pansy, because there was something else happening that _highly_ implied that—

“Potter,” Malfoy said, short and curt, because he was certain that if he added even a half of another syllable, his voice would crack and break and shatter like he felt like his whole mind and body were about to. 

Potter folded his arms, looking confident—his eyes were piercingly green. 

Draco tried not to roll his eyes at himself, then remembered that Potter wasn’t going to interpret it as Draco irritated at himself, but at Potter, so he went ahead and rolled his eyes. “Can I help you, Potter? Need to find the bathroom?”

Potter’s eyes glinted, sharp and dangerous, and Draco’s stomach dropped. “I wasn’t intending for that, but if you’re making a suggestion, Malfoy—”

“As if I’d ever _propose_ something of the _sort_,” Draco snapped viciously. 

Too viciously, judging by the way Pansy kicked at his ankle under the table. 

Terrific. 

Potter sighed heavily. “Look, Malfoy, I was just going to suggest that— Blast it. Never mind.”

Draco didn’t dare say anything that would keep him there. 

The moment Potter was—probably—out of earshot, Pansy grabbed Draco by the forearm and pulled him out of his seat. 

“Bloody hell, Pansy!” Draco snarled. 

Pansy hushed him with a sharp look and Draco, cowed, let her drag him wherever she decided was reasonable. 

God, he hoped they weren’t going to have another conversation in the Prefects’ bathroom. 

###

In the Prefects’ bathroom, Pansy pointed her wand at him. 

“Oi, watch where you’re pointing that!” Draco shouted, jumping back. When Pansy was angered and had her wand, she was possibly the most dangerous person on the planet. 

Draco counted the Dark Lord in that tally. 

“You’re acting ridiculous,” Pansy said, shaking her wand menacingly. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Draco said, backing up until he hit the wall and wincing. 

“He obviously fancies you, too,” Pansy snapped. 

“Keep your voice down!” 

“Why? You think he doesn’t?”

“He’s _straight_, Pansy!”

“Peeves!” Pansy yelled, and Draco gasped in complete horror. 

“Are you _insane_?”

The bathroom door slammed open and Peeves came flying inside in a rush of wind, turning on at least half a dozen of the bath taps. 

Draco held his breath, not daring to move. If Peeves saw them—

“Who does Harry Potter fancy?” Pansy asked loudly, and Peeves whirled to her with a grin. 

“_Boys and toys_,” Peeves crowed, and flew back out of the bathroom, cackling loudly. 

“See?” Pansy said. 

Draco huffed and turned on his heel to leave. 

“You’ll see soon, Draco!” Pansy called after him. “You’ll see!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Draco muttered, fully aware that Pansy could hear him—and fully aware that Potter was as straight as they came. 

### FOUR YEARS LATER ###

Draco scowled down at the _Daily Prophet_ on his breakfast table. He couldn’t stand the constant rumors about who Potter was in love with this time. 

Evidently, ever since Potter had broken up with the Weaselette, the press had been having a field day. 

Or, rather, a field-four-months. 

Everybody Potter stepped out of the house with, even if it was a reporter, was linked to him in a matter of hours at most. One particularly interesting headline had been convinced that Potter was with a squirrel Animagus who ran with him in the park. 

The story had been dropped rather quickly, but Draco had followed it through the _Quibbler_, which had latched onto it in a more level-headed manner. 

Well, as level-headed as the _Quibbler_ could be. 

Apparently, Potter had found the squirrel as a baby, cold and dying, and took it in. He’d given an exclusive interview to the _Quibbler_, as well, talking about how, once he’d released it, he’d taken to running in the same park—although it was “a little out of the way,” which, for Potter, translated to nearly an hour’s walk and more than fifteen minutes at a run—to keep an eye on Darcy. 

He’d named the squirrel _Darcy_. 

That had probably been the day that Draco had completely fallen for Potter. 

That had also been the day that Draco decided to take up running. At first, of course, running in a park near his own home, at odd times of the day so that he wouldn’t run into somebody who might see how out of shape he was, but, after a while, he started running in Potter’s park. 

The squirrels there were overrun. 

It was disgusting. 

And they were so friendly that Draco was convinced that the only survival skills they had were trying to play to a stranger’s sympathies in a bid for food. 

Draco had _certainly_ not given in. 

And if he had, it was _only_ the one time. 

No more than a dozen. 

Or two. 

Or three. 

Maybe four, actually. 

And anyway, it was _certainly_ not the reason he started eating lunch at the park, too, or bringing extra tortilla chips and nuts and seeds with him. 

And Draco had _absolutely not_ researched what foods were best for squirrels and altered his lunches accordingly. 

They were _his_ lunches, after all. 

Draco almost balled up the _Prophet_, but, at the last minute, decided to flip through towards the back, where the half-decent articles lay. Not the big, sensationalist ones, but the ones about political decisions that affected Muggles and wizards alike, and the ones about news with actual citations, the ones like “Harry Potter at St. Mungo’s for Auror Accident.”

The ones like _what_?

The breath rushed out of Draco in a sharp huff. How the hell had nobody told him? 

Harry Potter was hospitalised late Tuesday night. His condition has since been reported stable, but 

Draco ignored the rest of the article, dropped his spoon in his oatmeal and sent the whole mess into his sink, and Apparated to St. Mungo’s without a second thought. 

And then froze, because he was in the middle of the St. Mungo’s lobby without any good reason. 

Any good reason that anybody other than Pansy—and perhaps Blaine—would accept, or even know about in the first place. 

One of the receptionists looked up and Draco _completely_ froze, not even breathing or blinking. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, smiling politely. “What can I assist you with?”

He forced himself to work forward to the front desk. “Excuse me— Hi, sorry. Erm. I heard that, er, Harry Potter was—”

“Left earlier this morning,” the receptionist said, her smile becoming more pitying, like she knew exactly why Draco was interested in the first place. “He returned to his home.”

“That’s good,” Draco said, voice sounding high and warbling even to his own ears. “How marvelous. Magnificent, even. If you’ll excuse me.”

Draco Apparated without a thought as to where he was going. 

Well. 

Without a _conscious_ thought to where he was going. 

Which meant that he ended up at Potter’s house, on the doorstep, wide-eyed, panicked, and staring at Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger and—

_Ginny._

Draco made a high squeaking sound and cleared his throat, deepening his voice lower than normal. “Excuse me,” he said, trying to regain some snoot to put into it, “I was hoping to wish Potter luck on his recovery from another idiotic accident on the job.”

Surprisingly, Ron Weasley was the first one to act, tugging Ginny Weasley to his side. “He’s about to take a nap, but I’m sure he’d like to see you, Malfoy.”

Draco could feel himself frowning, making a face, and then he snapped out of it, schooling his features into a calm sneer. “Thank you, Weasel. Finally helpful.”

Ron Weasley just shot him a pitying glance. “He’s been cleared for activity, including exercise. Don’t wear him out.” 

Draco’s eyes just about bugged out of his head and he spluttered before half-running inside, closing the front door behind himself and leaning on it heavily. 

“Ron?” Potter called. “You forget something?”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. No, this was bad. 

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. Calm, cool, and collected. And if something went terribly wrong, he could dose Potter with a potion, or Obliviate his memories, or—well, no, it’d have to be a potion if he wanted it fine-tuned. 

And he did. There was no way that he could forgive himself if he accidentally completely Obliviated the Boy Who Lived. 

Draco carefully stepped forward, tapping his finger to his throat and casting a silent spell to clear it of any mucous or something that could make his voice raspy or embarrassing. 

“Ron!” Potter yelled, and Draco rolled his eyes. 

“Not Ron,” Draco called, and Potter was silent. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” he asked, his voice suddenly much more tired. 

Draco hesitated despite himself, but kept walking. “Heard you almost died. Thought I’d see if I couldn’t finish the job.”

Internally, Draco was screaming. How the hell did he expect this to go now?

Instead of snapping something back, Potter laughed. “Sounds about right.” 

Draco glanced at the doors and picked one at random. 

Potter was lying on the bed—the ridiculously large bed—buried under a heavy-looking pile of thick comforters and propped up on a veritable mountain of fluffy pillows. 

“How cold are you?” Draco asked before he could stop himself. 

“Recovering makes you cold,” Potter said. 

“No, it doesn’t.”

“No,” Potter said, “it doesn’t. But Ron set the thermostat to sixteen degrees, and if I leave, I’m going to freeze my pants off.”

“Hmm,” Draco said, sitting down carefully in the armchair by Potter’s bed. “Would you prefer me to raise the temperature for you?”

Potter shook his head. “He’s just trying to keep me on bed rest, that’s all. He worries too much for his own good.”

Draco hummed noncommittally, and Potter finally turned onto his side to look at him. 

“No offense, of course, but why are you here?” Potter asked. 

Draco swallowed. “As I said. To finish… the job.”

“I should warn you,” Potter said, “I’m on some pretty heavy-duty potions at the moment.”

“What potions?” Draco asked, grabbing for something to hold onto in this conversation. 

“Something like… Dolorelevium, and Veriverum.”

“Those are strong,” Draco said. 

They were. Dolorelevium was powerful enough that some wizards were allergic to it, and Veriverum was powerful pain relief but also used a small dose of Veritaserum in its ingredients to work off the chemical reaction when combined. When drunk immediately after mixing the Veritaserum with the Veriverum base, it was as strong as Dolorelevium at its maximum dose, and for a longer period of time. 

“So, Draco,” Harry said. “Tell me the truth.”

“About.”

“Why you’re here.”

“I read an article,” Draco said, blushing. 

Harry grinned. “About?”

“Darcy.”

Harry’s brow knit, and then he _beamed_. “My squirrel? Isn’t she darling?”

“That’s a word for it,” Draco said weakly. 

“You know,” Harry said, and Draco suddenly felt that something very—bad?—was about to happen. “There’s a spell to talk to animals.”

“Is there.”

“Darcy told me some interesting things.”

“Is that what this is? I come here to check on you, see whether you’re _dead_ or _dying_, and you make fun of me?” Draco stood abruptly, but that was a very bad move because Harry kicked off the covers and he—

He was not wearing pants. 

“Hey,” Harry snapped, “I wasn’t bloody making fun of you, Draco. Not— Hell, not to be _mean_!”

Anger flooded Draco. His therapist would say that anger was a distancing emotion, but— “Because neither of us has ever been cruel, have we? No, you’ve never done something _cruel_ to me, have you? Not something like, oh, I don’t know. Sectumsempra ringing any bells, Potter?” Draco pulled up his shirt, bright white scars cutting across his torso. “Is this not—”

“You were a nonce then and you’re a nonce now,” Harry snapped, standing and stalking forward and Draco’s eyes went wide as he lurched back, unable to look away from the _fury_ flashing in Harry’s eyes. 

Oh. 

Oh, no. No, that wasn’t _all_ fury. 

And it wasn’t for Draco, either. 

Oh, no. 

But also—

Oh, _yes_. 

“Me?” Draco said, suddenly realizing that this was half anger, half foreplay. “How about you? Prancing around, full of yourself like _always_, and—”

Harry kissed him, hard, and Draco moaned, pulling Harry closer, kissing back harder, trying to keep sparring, keep fighting, keep _going_, but Harry was _warm_ and he was there, and Harry suddenly shoved Draco up against the wall and kissed down his jaw to his _ear_, and Draco whimpered, tearing at his shirt buttons before he remembered that he had magic and undoing the buttons with a fast spell. 

They all came off, bouncing across the floor—one hitting the wall with the force he used—but Draco couldn’t care less. This wasn’t even really much of a nice shirt if he was being completely honest. 

And besides, Harry was grabbing at the button of his slacks and Draco groaned, shucking off his shirt the rest of the way and clutching at Harry again, trying to think anything coherent other than _oh god oh god oh god it’s happening it’s finally happening it’s happening_ as Harry sucked _hard_ on his neck, pulling blood to the surface so fast that Draco felt dizzy, all of the blood rushing to where Harry’s hands touched, and Harry’s hands were touching and _touching_, and Draco gasped as Harry finally undid his button and _shoved_ down his trousers and _grabbed_—

Draco pushed Harry back with one hand, using his other to squeeze his base tight enough it hurt. “Just— Just need— One—”

Harry was grinning at him, pleased as could be, and Draco scowled all over again. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “How’re you gonna do that?”

Draco sneered. “Wanna find out?”

Harry blinked, and then he nodded. “Do it.”

Draco let himself take over, pushing Harry to the bed, shoving him down roughly, crawling on top of him, and straddling his head. “Last chance to back out,” Draco said, suddenly terrified that Harry was going to—

But Harry grabbed Draco, wrapping his arms over the tops of Draco’s thighs and pulling him down, his arse hitting Harry’s face, hole a half-inch from his mouth, and Harry just moved him, shifting him, adjusting his position as Draco barely managed to stay upright, completely in disbelief, and Harry _licked_ into him and Draco shouted, thighs tensing and trying to force up but—

Harry kept a tight hold on him and Draco suddenly relaxed, body going weak and soft, and Harry hummed, and he could _feel_ Harry smiling on his—

Oh, fuck, on his _arse_. 

Harry let go of one of Draco’s thighs for a moment, and then the nightstand drawer flew open and some bright pink thing shot into Harry’s open hand. 

“What in the bloody— What _is_ that— Thing—”

Draco broke off in a long moan as whatever it was started vibrating somehow and Harry pressed it to the space between Draco’s cock and his balls, hard enough that it almost hurt, and then went back to licking into his hole, sucking harsh, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses onto his skin, and Harry broke away to mutter something then moved his hand from holding the—_thing_—to thrusting a finger into Draco’s hole, nothing but spit to slick the way, and Draco shuddered, grabbing at the headboard, praying that he didn’t lose his grip and completely collapse onto Harry—

But if he did, Harry, quite honestly, didn’t seem like he’d mind, because he was—

_Shit_—

He was trying to pull Draco down harder, _further_, and Draco finally just gave up resisting, completely and utterly, and let Harry bend him to his whims, use him however he saw fit—whether it was pleasuring him or punishing him until he cried begging for release, Draco would let him do it. 

He trusted Harry. He actually did. 

Draco let go—literally let go of the headboard, falling to his elbows, hoping that Harry didn’t mind this—that if he did, he wouldn’t destroy Draco telling him so. 

But, thank fuck, Harry just pressed another finger inside and kept eating him out like he had to or he’d _die_. 

Draco finally, finally settled all the way, going limp, trusting that Harry would tell him if he wanted something to change. 

A moment later, though, Harry pushed Draco’s arse up. “I want to fuck you,” he said, and Draco groaned, nodding desperately. 

“Please, please, fuck me, Harry.”

Draco gasped as Harry suddenly flipped him onto his back, crawling up and kissing him, tasting of Draco, and Draco scrabbled at Harry’s back as he heard the slick sounds of Harry’s hand sliding up and down on his own cock before pressing the head to Draco’s hole, butting up against the loosened rim, but it didn’t catch, not yet, and Draco pulled his legs up higher, hitching them up, trying to help Harry get a better angle, but then Harry grabbed his own cock, and Draco couldn’t look away as he _forced_ it into Draco’s hole. 

_It was too big_. That was the first thought that Draco had—the first coherent thought, at least—as Harry slowly fucked into him, just the one, long—_long_—thrust, but it was _dizzying_. 

“You good?” Harry whispered, kissing Draco’s cheek, and Draco realized that he’d been clenching up tight around Harry’s cock, because, without consciously thinking about it, he relaxed, and then Harry’s balls slapped against Draco’s arse and he _moaned_, nodding. 

“Fucking—_good_,” Draco gasped, hips rocking uncontrollably, trying to work Harry deeper into himself, squeezing and relaxing around Harry’s cock as it split his hole open, split his arse in two. 

“Come whenever you need,” Harry said, voice husky. “I’m not gonna— Can’t last long anyway.”

Draco nodded desperately, reaching down to fist his cock, but Harry batted his hand away. 

“Think you can come just on my cock?” he asked, smile so devious that Draco didn’t even consider it, just nodded—just _agreed_. “Good,” Harry said, and started _fucking_ him. 

Draco groaned and gasped and moaned, half of him trying to just come and get himself out of this torture, the other half trying to not come, not _yet_, not _now_, but the moment Harry’s thrusts stuttered and Draco felt Harry’s cock twitch, heat spilling out of his hole as Harry’s thrusts grew sloppy and long enough that his cock came out halfway through a pulse of his load, Draco was _gone_. 

Pleasure flooded him, and he wasn’t really aware of time passing or not—all he knew was that Harry started stroking his hair, slow and gentle, and he blinked his eyes open. 

“You’re still in me, Potter,” Draco said, but he couldn’t muster up any heat. 

“I fancy you, too, Draco,” Harry said, but started to pull out anyway. 

Draco threw a leg over Harry’s arse, panicked. “I didn’t say I wanted you out,” Draco whispered. 

Harry kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please consider leaving kudos or a comment. 
> 
> _This work was inspired by @NihilistShiro's Kinktober prompt list, available here: https://twitter.com/NihilistShiro/status/1162794889970511872 _


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